Free The Enemy Within by Michael Dean Page A

Ruhr.
    ‘Good luck, Tommy,’ Hirschfeld said, aloud, in English.
    As he pushed open the door of the Koco , he was assailed by a blast of warm air and the sound of Long Freddy playing gypsy fiddle in the corner. There were a few customers in, drinking coffee, eating ice-cream - despite the cold weather - or munching pastries. Ernst Cahn waved hello and came to join Hirschfeld at a corner table.
    Hirschfeld was pleased. He expected to be shunned, except when he was needed, because of his association with the Occupying Authority. And, although he didn’t especially like Cahn – he didn’t especially like anyone – he found him interesting. He was, he realised, starved of intellectual – no, make that cultural – companionship.
    Cahn was from Munich, originally. He had known the novelist Lion Feuchtwanger well. He also claimed to have known Thomas Mann. The detail on Mann was always thinner than it was on Feuchtwanger, and consisted largely of information in the public domain, so Hirschfeld was sceptical. But at least it was interesting, which was all he demanded of culture and the cultured. He had enough facts in his work.
    Cahn snapped his fingers; a waiter brought a milky coffee for them both. They talked about the latest books Emanuel Querido was publishing. Querido published all the emigré writers, from his homely little office, just off the Keizersgracht. Cahn said Querido was publishing a history book by Erich Kuttner, who they both knew, about 1566, the year of hunger in Holland.
    As they were talking, the door was thrown open so hard its glass rattled and about half a dozen black-uniformed WA ran in. They were yelling and whooping. One of them was shouting ‘Bring out your Mozes’ Hirschfeld flinched.
    Cahn stood up and dashed behind the counter. He picked up the telephone, fixed to a wall bracket, and shouted into it. Long Freddy was the first casualty; the leading WA- man hit him in the face, sending his violin skidding across the floor, broken. Two of the WA had seized a young Jewish couple. Hirschfeld saw the young man fight back, putting himself in front of his girlfriend, or wife. Then they both went down, under a flurry of punches and kicks. Two of Cahn’s waiters were taking on another knot of WA, but getting the worst of it.
    Stunned, gasping, Hirschfeld was standing at the table when a red-faced, black-uniformed figure lumbered up to him. The words ‘Do you know who I am?’ formed in his mind, but nothing came out. He felt a massive, clumsy shove in the chest, which sent him staggering backwards, stumbling over his own chair. He kept his feet, determined not to go down. But his back thudded against the wall so hard he whiplashed forward then back, banging the back of his head against the wall. He tasted blood in his mouth; he’d bitten his tongue.
    He glanced out the window, desperate for help. The street was empty. The name Koco printed backwards on the ice-cream parlour’s plate-glass window seared itself on his mind. His assailant came at him, his face contorted with hatred.
    Just then there was a massive explosion.
    Hirschfeld registered the smell. It was ammonia. His assailant lay face down on the floor, screaming at the burning in his back. He had unwittingly protected Hirschfeld from the blast. The young Jewish man and his girl had been on the floor, also shielded. They got up, unsteadily. Both their faces were covered in blood. He put his arm round her; led her toward the door. They were shaking, their knees buckling as they staggered forward. There was another old man sitting in a corner, bewildered, apparently untouched. Two of the WA and one waiter were screaming as the ammonia burnt into their faces.
    And then, out of the window, Hirschfeld glimpsed a car pulling up. He watched as four tough-looking dark-haired youths sprang out. The WA in the Koko had had enough. Two of them, unharmed by the ammonia blast, ran as far the doorway. The leading two Jewish youths pushed them back inside,